


Home Comforts

by draculard



Category: Monster House (2006)
Genre: F/M, Grief/Mourning, Masturbation, Necrophilia, Statue kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-13
Updated: 2019-04-13
Packaged: 2020-01-12 13:45:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,104
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18447794
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/draculard/pseuds/draculard
Summary: The people you love never really leave you. Nebbercracker knows that better than anyone.





	Home Comforts

There was beauty in every crack of the concrete where it encased Constance’s skin. He could see the form of her, intact beneath a crushing layer of stone; each fold of skin, each roll of fat, it was all still visible, yet lost to him forever.

There was no way to know whether the fall had killed her or if she’d drowned. He could feel the concrete sliding down his throat and filling up his lungs as surely as if he’d drowned with her. That first night, with Constance dead in the bottom of the basement, Nebbercracker had sat outside even as the temperature dropped and a soft rain fell. He’d been too numb to move, too numb to cry, too numb to even name his emotions.

A cold wave swept over his nerves — the closest he got to grief, nothing more than a shudder of sensation almost like pain.

He spent the whole night out there.

* * *

For the first week, Nebbercracker didn’t sleep in their wedding bed. He slept next to Constance’s body; he held her hardened hand in his, he laid his head on her petrified breast. He fell into a fitful sleep, filled with fragments of nightmares he would never stop having.

Her hands on the axe. That crucial moment when their balance shifted, when Nebbercracker was thrown to the ground and Constance lost her footing. The way she teetered on the edge for what felt like an eternity, an eternity in which he did nothing, just stayed there, rooted to the ground.

Her hand on the lever. The crack of her body hitting the floor.

Surely she died from that. Surely she died from the fall; her head hit the ground and that was that. A quick death, a painless death, one swift blow to end Constance’s life of torment,

He wants to believe that, desperately. But if it were true, he knows he wouldn’t feel her presence today. He wouldn’t feel the house breathing around him, feel energy thrumming through her body in the basement.

“I’m sorry, Constance,” Nebbercracker whispers. He squeezes her hand, but it doesn’t give an inch. Her soft, malleable flesh is gone.

There’s nothing left but stone.

* * *

He still hasn’t cried over her death when the house is finished. The tears won’t come; that cold numbness is still inside him, pulsing through his body in waves. At night, aching from a day of hard work, Nebbercracker walks down the stairs into the basement. Into Constance’s room.

He wears nothing but his wifebeater and underwear. His knees pop with every step; his forearms and the nape of his neck burn from too long in the sun.

But it all fades away when he sees Constance’s body. Even like this, she is beautiful to him. In a sense, she’s been preserved forever, in a way no one else has ever been. Other widowers may visit their wife’s grave to reminisce, but Nebbercracker has the only monument to Constance he will ever need in his own basement.

The house is Constance’s body now. What does that make the thing in the basement? A shell? An empty husk?

As he stares at her — at it — the waves of numbness grow stronger and faster, bursting through his body like sparks of electricity and settling in his groin. He runs his hands over the smooth, concrete planes of Constance’s body — the curve of her breasts, of her stomachs, of her arms. He slips a hand between her legs, where the concrete has hardened around her vulva, leaving it as well-defined and detailed as a Greek statue.

“Constance,” Nebbercracker whispers. He remembers the shouts of the children, the crack of an egg against Constance’s raised arms.

She was only defending herself. He should have let her go.

Breath hitching, Nebbercracker closes his eyes. He fumbles, one-handed, in his underpants, pulls out his half-hard crack. With his other hand, he strokes Constance’s concrete-covered clit. He wishes he could enter her, wishes he could please her with his tongue the way he used to, but that pleasure has been robbed from him.

He closes his fingers around his cock, gripping himself hard. How long has it been since he touched himself? The last time must have been during the war, before he and Constance became an item. Or maybe it was after the first time they met — yes, the night he first saw her, when he went to bed with the image of her imprinted on his eyelids and touched himself beneath the sheets.

Nebbercracker strokes himself until his cock is flushed bright pink and bobbing against his scrawny belly. He clambers up on Constance, breathing hard, and slots his hips against hers, his legs pinned between her massive thighs. He licks his finger and circles his own nipples, relishing the coolness as the basement air hits them, turning them erect.

His lips find Constance’s neck; he kisses down to her shoulder and back up to her jawline, grinding his cock against her — against the rock-hard slab her body has become. _It’s almost like fucking a gravestone,_ Nebbercracker thinks. He finds her cool, hard lips and presses his against hers, his hips rocking, pressure building, coming closer and closer to his release.

And then he hears it — a whisper floating toward him on a draft that shudders through the house. The voice of his beloved. The breathy moan of arousal he never thought he’d hear again.

 _Horace_ , Constance says.

He cums so hard it nearly blinds him; his fingers dig into Constance’s concrete shoulders, his hips grind against the curve of her stomach. When everything settles — when he can hear himself breathing again, when his vision comes back, when the orgasm fades — the draft is gone.

And the waves of numbness suddenly stop. Nebbercracker looks down at his wife — at the stone remains of what was once the most beautiful woman in the world, and for the first time since her death, he feels it all.

The pain. The relief. The shame.

His vision blurs, and his first tears of grief splash down on Constance’s concrete face, leaving spots of darker grey wherever they fall.

“Constance,” Nebbercracker sobs, his voice choked, “I’m here.”

He bends forward, putting his arms around her neck, pressing his face against her ample breast. His cock lays, limp and spent, between them. He longs for her to comfort him, to wrap her arms around his small frame, to hold him the way only she could. But she doesn’t move; the house creaks and groans, and Constance’s body lays still as Nebbercracker weeps.

“I’m here,” he says again. “I’m home.”


End file.
